I guess Baby J really wasn't anywhere before she was born. Or, another way to look at it was that she was everywhere. Once I contributed my share to the venture, my wife went about the busy task of putting together a baby. The myriad pieces that make up Baby J were taken in and fitted together carefully over several months. Part of the baby could have been in a leaf of lettuce grown out in California, trucked across the country. Another part of her might have ripened in the flesh of a mango under a blazing Indian sun. So where do you come from before you're born? Probably the same place you go when you die. The thrumming cycles of the natural world.
Another question people love to argue about is when does life begin with a baby, when does not alive stop and alive start. I don't know the answer to these questions but this might be another thread that ties the beginning of life to the end of it.
My grandmother has been suffering from dementia for a few years now, the underpinnings of her mind have been slowly eroding. She's probably going to keep slipping until she can't hang on anymore. It's tragic, of course, but like all sad things in my life, my grandmother's slow departure will seem less sad if I can learn something from it, use it to think of something new and good. This is what I've got so far:
Maybe the time before you're born is like my grandmother's deterioration in reverse. Maybe there is no switch flipped, no sudden flash as you come on line. Maybe it's more like a dimmer switch sliding slowly towards the on position.
There are so many ways babies mirror our aging family member that it's hard for me not to come up with these ideas.
Listening To: All Ears, All Eyes, All the Time by Piebald
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